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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27838393">All my night (you’ve been missing)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/qgmon/pseuds/qgmon'>qgmon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Vis a Vis | Locked In (Spain TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, POV Second Person</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:41:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27838393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/qgmon/pseuds/qgmon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Only those who are forgotten die.”</p><p>With her help, you’ll live forever. You’re playing on her mind like a record - one that’s stuck and she can’t get rid of, or maybe just her favourite.</p><p>Maybe. </p><p>•••</p><p>The one where Maca remembers.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Macarena Ferreiro/Zulema Zahir</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. her.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Welp.. here goes. Dedicated to Ash, just because.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her thoughts are so loud you can hear them from hell.</p><p> </p><p>Or heaven, wherever the fuck it is you are resting right now. Rest in peace; what a stupid thing to say. You’re probably somewhere in the middle - in the greyest of areas if there ever was one. Existing in memories and pictures, old police reports, and dusty prison archives. Fear, intrigue, and a perverse sense of admiration - that’s your legacy, that is where you rest. Peace was never an option.</p><p>"Solo muere quién es olvidado."</p><p>With her help, you’ll live on forever. People say you can physically feel it if someone is thinking about you. An uneasy, hot sensation somewhere in your gut area. Or that ‘burning ear thing’, whatever. Look it up, you’re not here to teach a lesson. Well, if you could still feel.. anything, you’d be feeling it all over the damn place. All-day every day of the fucking week. You’re playing on her mind like a record - one that’s stuck and she can’t get rid of, or maybe just her favourite. Maybe.</p><p>You wonder - how on Earth has she not lost it yet? How does she keep her sanity when you have made a home in her, toying with her thoughts like a puppeteer, tugging at strings and loosening them over and over again. You would wonder, that is, if you could. If you were still alive. You’re not.</p><p>Moving on.</p><p> </p><p>Remember when you used to live together in that fucking caravan? You shared everything down to your last brain cell, it often seemed. Same room, same job, same bed. No sleep.</p><p>She used to take up so much space.</p><p>She remembers that time she felt you push at her shoulder, firm but tender enough not to hurt her. The first one was enough to wake her up, but she waited to see what you’d do next when she didn’t take the hint and move.</p><p>"Joder, rubía."</p><p>You sat up, shifted so you were kneeling over her, and scooped her body up - gently, lifting her just a little. The palms of your hands hot on her body: your right just below her shoulder blade, your left scolding her thigh. It was going to burn a permanent mark into her skin, she was sure of it. You could hear her breathing turn shallow, chest rising slowly, almost taunting. Her heartbeat so fast you were scared it would tear its way right through her rib cage and jump at you; right into your arms.</p><p>Eyes squeezed shut, she kept thinking about how well you two fit together, two pieces of a <em>very</em> ironic jigsaw. Yin and Yang? Overused and completely inaccurate. No, that's way too cliché, and you were anything but. Who'd even be who, in your duo? Technically, it would seem perfect - black and white,<em> la morena y la rubía</em>, but you were both long past that, both living in between shades of grey and every other colour under the sun. She liked the thought of that; A fucking rainbow of a life.</p><p>You fell asleep with your hands still on her that night, bodies snug against one another.</p><p>She touches her own thigh now, again. She can still feel your fingers brushing there. It still burns.</p><p>She knows you knew she was awake as you took her in your arms. She knows you knew she knew but didn’t say anything because instead of moving her immediately and jumping off to your side of the bed, you held her. Just a little too long.</p><p>You know she knows you liked it.</p><p> </p><p>Apparently, you have-.. well, had - let’s keep this realistic - bizarre spending habits. She keeps thinking about that time you bought a trampoline; god, that was ridiculous. All that money to keep yourself entertained and<em> that</em> was your choice.</p><p>She never told you this and she wouldn't even do it now (good thing you're dead, huh?) but she could not stop looking at you on that thing. She watched you - every time. Whenever you'd sneak out to bounce around, only lightly so she wouldn't hear and notice - she did. She stared at you through the window, eyes glued to your form, mouth ajar, and brows furrowed with an almost child-like fascination. Maybe it's that she thought you looked ridiculous - that would make sense. A grown woman, a convicted criminal.<em> Una assassina.</em> Jumping on a trampoline that you bought on a whim, for your own amusement. Just because; something to do with cancer and being scared for your life or whatever. </p><p>Truth is, she didn't think you looked ridiculous. Well, she <em>did </em>but that wasn't it, not quite. It's just that she physically could not take her eyes off you. That, followed by this strange sensation at the back of her throat and a buzz somewhere around the general chest area. Nowhere specific, definitely not. And was it just her or did the temperature get a few degrees higher every time you were out there, smiling (in secret, you thought) like an idiot? You really knew how to pick your timing weather-wise, huh? She couldn't quite place it then and she can't think of what the fascination was, now. </p><p>Well, she would be able to, perhaps, but she's not ready for that conversation yet. Neither are you - dead, remember?</p><p>Anyways.</p><p> </p><p>She remembers the shit things, too. Oh, don't you worry. She remembers them vividly. She still thinks about all the actions you ruined her life with, the film in her memory spanning from way back when, those godawful yellow jumpsuit days, all the way up to some of your latest - and final - developments. The former memories are fading more and more each day, though. They’re no longer important and they hurt a lot less. Too much has happened since then. And she has gotten back at you quite a few times for a lot of it, you would admit. </p><p>Yet the way you backhanded her across the face still feels very real. As do all the fights you had in the caravan: every shattered plate, every knife thrown in her direction. Every time you grabbed her arm when she was 'done with your shit and leaving'. She can still feel it. The adrenaline, the anger, oh the<em> fucking </em>anger. Along with the anxiety, the fear. Not of you, but of losing you.</p><p>Knowing the latter - now <em>that </em>she finds absolutely terrifying.</p><p> </p><p>Mainly, however, she remembers the way things felt. The closeness, the heat. Skin on skin, breaths mingling together, lips, so damn<em> wet</em>, and fingers in hair, and hands around necks and <em>squeezing</em>. Just enough. Always just right. </p><p>Her favourite record? You might just be a very different favourite possession of hers. </p><p>She thinks of the way your mouth used to feel, her own fingertips following your favourite route. Mouth teeth and tongue, a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, your tongue tracing the shapes you found there. Then a bite. She gasps, even now.</p><p>Her hand on her neck, squeezing where she'd be feeling your shallow breaths by now. Slowly sliding down to her chest, lips leaving a glistening trail in their wake, she pinches her nipples, rough and sharp but not too much. Exactly the way you'd do it. If she tries hard enough, eyes glued shut - she can almost see your body on top of hers behind her lids. </p><p>She'd given up on sleeping with other people a while ago - look at what you've done to her. After her third and final one night stand, after one too many drinks bought by one too many people who weren't you, she realised. They felt wrong - all of them. The men, the women; each kiss just a little too sloppy. Their touches out of place. If she really tried to use her imagination, she could almost pretend they were you, right up until she could no longer suppress the most familiar sound rolling down her tongue and escaping her mouth with a soft pant:</p><p>"Zulema."</p><p>Green eyes always found by a pair of others - her gaze was never met by yours again. She hated it. She'll fuck herself pretending it's you from now on if that's what she has to do.</p><p>Her hands slide down to where she needs you the most, a ghost of your touch lingering with each movement. She draws lazy circles, dipping down and back up, just for it to last a bit longer. If only to pretend you're there with her. She bites her lip and whimpers; it's time. God, she's so wet for you, even now.</p><p>Two fingers slide in and her eyes snap back open, mouth agape, her heart going crazy. She pumps in and out without mercy, curling inside just the way you knew she liked it, hitting her walls in all the right places and pressing right there there <em>there</em>, again.</p><p>"Zule.." she moans, breathless.</p><p>A third finger slips inside with ease and she's so fucking close. She remembers every single thing you would be doing right now; fuck, did you know just how to push her right over the edge. Her other hand leaves her neck and joins the dance, middle finger going round and round in motion, pressing harder each time, imagining the flat of your tongue against her clit. Flick, press, suck. Your mouth, soft and slick, yet firm around her. Fingers still thrusting, again and again, <em>and again-</em>.. she hears it in her ears, ringing so loud and clear. Your voice. It's always you.</p><p>"Come for me, rubía."</p><p>She does. </p><p> </p><p>She sucks her digits clean, tasting herself the way she would on your mouth; twirling her tongue around her middle finger slowly - what a tease.</p><p>"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she whispers into an empty room. </p><p>Perhaps you're still out there somewhere, so fucking smug each time she moans your name as she comes undone. That grin of yours - she'd love to wipe it off your face. Shut you up with her cunt in your mouth; now that would show you. She wonders, often, if you can hear her. </p><p>Sometimes you wonder that, too.</p><p> </p><p>Well, you would, if you could. Or not. You'd like to think you'd be in bed with her instead of dwelling on something unimportant if you could actually do... anything. You'd fuck her so well.</p><p>Whatever.</p><p> </p><p>She writes you letters. Ones she would never have wanted you to find out about so it's a good thing you're dead, really. She doesn't need to hide them and you will never know - everyone wins. </p><p>She tells you she thinks about you. She even says she misses you, a few times. She's usually at least 4 shots of tequila down before writing those particular ones, though. Liquid courage and all that. Isn't it ridiculous that she still needs it? After all this time, she can't sit there, sober, and just think about you without her heart racing. She can't hold a pen without her hand shaking every time she's scribbling on these stupid sheets of paper, which - by the way - why is she even doing again? </p><p>She writes them when tipsy and reads them while drunk. Joder, wouldn't you have something to say if you were alive to see this. </p><p>She swears she can hear you laughing at her sometimes. She listens to the silence more intently now.</p><p>Really, she knows. All the answers to all the ‘why’s’. Or just the one and only, honest response. Of course she knows - she's known it for years and she thinks so have you but alas, she'll never find out. She would also never say it aloud; she struggles to admit it, still, even to herself.</p><p>Every night, whenever she closes her eyes, though, she feels tears welling up behind soft eyelids. She thinks of you, over and over again. If she could, if her voice allowed it, she would say it. She would even tell this one, simple truth to you:</p><p>"I lo— you know... you."</p><p>She still does.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. you.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If you were still alive, if you could look into her longing green eyes, you’d say it back.</p><p>"I lo—.."</p><p>Oh, fuck it. You have nothing to lose - you’re dead already.</p><p>"I love you, too."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Is this too soft? Yes. Do I care? No.</p><p>Comments make my life less shitty. Also, listen to 'Nights' by Frank Ocean.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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